Priya’s silence was enough.
Mila sipped her juice through a paper straw, unaware that the adults around her were quietly rearranging the meaning of her father.
I forced my voice to remain even.
“Where is Adrian now?”
“In the presidential suite above the ballroom.”
“With Claire and the boy?”
“Yes.”
“Who is the boy?”
Priya glanced at Bianca.
Bianca spoke reluctantly.
“His name is Noah.”
“How old is he?”
“Maybe eight.”
A son.
Older than Mila.
I looked down at my hands.
For years, I had defended Adrian to my brothers. I had explained away his long hours, his guarded phone, his impatience whenever I asked about work. I had believed ambition made him distracted. I had believed pressure made him private.
Had Claire been there before me?
Had Noah?
The possibility was so painful that my mind resisted it.
Mila looked up from her sandwich.
“Mommy, why are you sad?”
